


Kindred

by Feynite



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance, Spoilers, Tragedy, Wolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-13 12:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4521525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feynite/pseuds/Feynite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Not that, da’len,” she says, firmly. “It will give you a rash.”</p>
<p>She waits until the woman’s back is turned, and then touches it anyway.</p>
<p>It gives her a rash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kindred

She is six years old when her parents, trying to buy passage to Ferelden, make a deal with a man who owns a boat. He has a broad smile and a red beard, big meaty hands that gently pat her head, and he assures her father that he sympathises with the plight of the elves, that he’s helping them because that’s what good men do. Her father looks like a wisp next to him; like a rake propped up beside a boulder. The man seems trustworthy, though. He smiles so much. Laughs so loud. Seems too happy to be a bad person.

The ship doesn’t go to Ferelden.

They are packed in with other elves like sardines, and her parents’ faces turn more and more worried as they wait, crammed in the dark below decks. They try not to let her see. She clutches her ragdoll, a long worn thing with loose stitches and half its stuffing gone. Her mother made it for her, so long ago that she can’t remember ever not having it.

When the boat docks, men come and tell them that they’ll have to leave in tiny groups, and stay quiet. It takes all night. Her parents look more and more afraid, and her father’s arms are shaking as he holds her, when they finally walk out into the starlight.

They are dragged into cages.

Arms that smell like sweat and leather tear her from her father, a hand clamped over her mouth. She bites, but the owner is wearing gloves. The arms shove her into a cage full of other children. The last she sees of her parents is their terrified eyes.

The other children wail and cry but the cage they’re in has thick walls, and no one comes. She doesn’t learn she’s in the Free Marches until much, much later, when they are trundling along a road, the air hot and dry and all of them thirsty and hungry and terrified. One of the boys isn’t moving. He’s a wan creature – he was shaking for days, it seemed, and when a rough hand opened a slot in the top of their prison to give them water, he wouldn’t drink.

And now it’s hot, blisteringly hot, and he isn’t moving, and it’s hard to breathe.

Their cage lurches as they stop, suddenly. A few fearful whispers start up. There’s thumping, thudding, and then a splash of vivid red comes sailing through the tiny air holes in the top of their prison, spraying droplets on them.

The girl next to her grabs her shoulder. She’s tall and wiry, like the girls who work in the kitchens back home.

“If I lift you, can you see?” the girl asks her, pointing up to the openings, where the blood came from.

She looks, and then nods, even though her heart is pounding in her chest. Like her mother beating the laundry. It takes a while for her to scramble onto the other girl’s shoulders, and she’s sure her knees must be hurting her, but they manage to get high enough for her to peer out.

All she can see at first is grass. Grass and dirt and maybe some trees, through the tiny opening, and a boot. Or, not a boot, a foot – someone lying in the grass.

She relays her information. It’s not a lot, but they all murmur, as if these scant glimpses are _something_ they can use.

Then there’s another _thump_ , and another, and they go quiet and still. The girl who lifted her up grips her shoulder tight enough to hurt.

The doors to the back of the cage fly open, and they flinch at the sunlight.

“Bel da’len!” a voice cries in outrage.

An elf stands in the light, flanked by a few others. He looks strange. There are tattoos on him, and his clothing is like nothing she’s ever seen before, and his face is twisted in anger until he sees their eyes upon him, and then it softens into sorrow.

“It’s alright,” he says. “We are here to help you.”

The strange elves coax them out of the cage. There are dead men in the grass, but one of their saviors drags them swiftly out of sight. The others give them food and water and speak in urgent tones with one another, with words that sound very pretty but don’t mean anything to her. They tend their injuries and they take away the boy who wasn’t moving. One of them wraps him up in her cloak, and covers his face.

The elf who let them out asks them each for their name, calls them ‘da’len’, asks if they know where their parents or families might have been taken.

“They were at the docks,” the tall girls says. “In other cages. Will you help them?”

The elves exchange looks.

“We will try,” they promise.

 

~

 

They are, all together, too many children for one clan to take in, though they are repeatedly assured that they are all welcome and will be looked after. A woman with such deep green tattoos that it’s hard to see her face behind them comes, from a clan called Lavellan, and takes her and the tall girl – whose name is Amari – through the woods, in a wagon pulled by beautiful white deer, to a place that’s nothing like the city.

Amari and the woman talk, but she stays quiet. They have told her that her parents are lost, and they will look for them, and if they find them they will tell them where she has gone. She clutches her ragdoll and sucks on her thumb as she hasn’t since she was much, much smaller, but her mother isn’t here to tell her that she’s too big for it.

It is beautiful in the forests. When the wagon stops she picks up rocks and flowers and plants she’s never seen before. The green-faced woman stops her a few times, reaching out lightning-fast and grasping her wrist before she touches the vines trailing down the side of the tree.

“Not that, da’len,” she says, firmly. “It will give you a rash.”

She waits until the woman’s back is turned, and then touches it anyway.

It gives her a rash.

“Well. Some must learn the hard way,” the green-faced woman says, with a sigh.

 

~

 

There are not many children in Clan Lavellan, but the adults are eager to teach. She and Amari spend their nights with different caretakers for each one, it seems, though Amari often sneaks out to go and look at the white deer. ‘Halla’, the woman who looks after them corrects her. “They are sacred,” she says.

The halla tender likes Amari. After a while, Amari simply stays with her, and she alone is left to bounce between adults, waiting for her parents to come. She least likes the Hahren, who isn’t like the Hahren from home, and sometimes smacks the back of her head for using the wrong words, and tries to take her ragdoll away.

But she hides her from him. She finds an old stump that’s just got an opening just big enough for her to fit her doll inside, and that’s where she puts her, only she isn’t expecting the clan to just pack up and _leave_ and she forgets her there and she can’t ask her parents to go find her because they’re _gone._

She tries to go back, but one of the hunters stops her. The woman catches her in strong arms and it all comes tumbling out of her, like a waterfall.

When she’s finished, she gets carried back to the wagons – the aravels – and, exhausted, falls asleep.

She wakes up with her ragdoll tucked in next to her.

 

~

 

There is always something to do in an alienage, and there is always something to do in a camp. They’re just different kinds of things. In the camp, there are no shems allowed. There are no rich people to do jobs for, and no guards to come and beat people. There are birds and plants and rivers and rocks and animals, and the hunters bring in dead animals, and they need to be cleaned and butchered and have their hides tanned, because there’s no market. There are berry bushes and fruit trees and wild mushrooms, all of which have poisonous cousins that she must learn.

She and Amari run errands and fetch things, mostly. Amari helps feed the halla. The hunter who brought her back her ragdoll, Melas, shows her how to clean fish.

“The knife is very sharp,” she says. “Don’t use it without me.”

She promises not to, but the blade fascinates her in the ease with which it cuts. She has never seen anything so sharp before. It’s nothing like the dull knives she knows, the ones that squish the loaves of bread they try to cut through, that need to be used like saws to get anything done.

That’s what it’s like being in the camp, really. Everything is sharper. Everything… glints.

 

~

 

When she is twelve, Melas officially takes her on as apprentice.

It mostly means a lot more cleaning kills and fletching arrows and carrying packs.

“Halla must be easier,” she tells Amari, who is growing willowy and fair, who is almost old enough for her vallaslin. The older girl just laughs, because halla are hard but she loves them, and she never rises to the bait.

“Less bloody, at least,” she says, pointedly. There are bloodstains on her tunic. It’s clean; but they won’t wash out, and she’s growing like a weed so it’s hard enough to keep her in clothes as it is.

They go quiet for a while, sitting side by side, enjoying the break in the constant move-and-go of their lives. Amari stares up at the trees around them; at the little birds flitting between the branches.

“Do you think we were meant to come here?” Amari wonders. “Do you think the Creators guided our footsteps?”

She blinks at the sudden change in topics, and then considers it. Her first thought is that the Creators would have to be cruel to bring them without their parents. But maybe it was only that they couldn’t do enough. Maybe they couldn’t save them, too.

“I don’t know,” she says.

“But we fit so well here,” Amari insists. “It must be fate. We were meant to be Dalish.”

She looks at her hands, and doesn’t have the heart to admit that she’s not quite sure she fits so ‘well’ as Amari does.

 

~

 

Her aim gets better. Her arms get stronger. She grows, and then stops. Amari meets a young man when their clans converge, twice, and then on the third time, she goes to marry him. The clan gives her one of the halla to take as dowry, and her husband’s clan gives them a dozen soft hide blankets in return.

Melas sits with her, after Amari has gone; after all of the hugging and crying and farewells have passed.

“You could go with her, da’len,” she says. “Their clan has few skilled hunters. They would welcome someone talented as you.”

“Ma serannas, Melas,” she whispers. “But I am your only apprentice. I will stay.”

Melas looks at her a moment, and then leans against her shoulder. She is warm and strong and sure. Maybe someday, that will be what she will be like. If she cannot be like Amari, who fits so well, then that is what she wants.

“You do well by the clan,” Melas tells her. “I’m proud.”

The sorrow of parting with Amari is a little easier to bear.

 

~

 

When she is eighteen, a sudden, heavy burst of rain breaks through the heavens in the middle of a hunt. On the trek back she slips and sprains her ankle. Melas helps her hobble back to camp, cursing, and laughs at her groan when the Keeper tells her she will have to stay off her foot for a few days.

“We will have all the fun without you, da’len,” she teases.

“I’m not a child anymore!” she grumbles, rolling her eyes.

“Anyone who needs to insist upon that still deserves to be called _da’len_ ,” Melas tells her, before dumping a pile of mending into her lap. “Keep your hands busy, at least.”

She mutters curses and deprecations under her breath, as the rain finally dies down.

The next morning, the hunters go back out. Her little fall cut short the hunt, and the traitorous sky is clear again.

By evening, they haven’t returned.

Disquieted murmurs spread through the camp. The Keeper soothes them – sometimes, hunts take longer, go further than expected. Sometimes they last a few days, even unplanned. It should not mean much, but it sinks into her, nevertheless. She thinks of how she will tease them when they get back. She will say Melas is getting old and slow, that they can’t carry on a proper hunt without her.

But several days go by, and nothing.

She is back on her feet.

“I’ll follow them,” she declares. “I know the trails.”

“Not alone,” the Keeper tells her, and sends her First along, too. Tinrel is barely older than her, but he is haughty, and slow, and does not take kindly to being hurried. She wants to leave him behind, to go on ahead, but she suspects he would not fare well on his own, magic or no.

It takes them many hours to find the hunters’ trails, and then they almost stumble into the nest themselves. Only the squeak of dragonlings saves them.

“A dragon,” she realizes, with growing dread.

Tinrel freezes.

“Then… the hunters are dead,” he whispers.

“They aren’t dead until we see proof,” she insists. Hunters are clever. Surely, they would have heard the dragonlings, too. Or seen other signs that she missed. But they may be trapped; dragons change the landscape of a place to suit them. The one here must be a relatively new arrival. She sees no burning trees, until she climbs a sturdy pine herself, ignoring Tinrel’s panicked whispers at her not to go too high lest she be _seen._

There, the forest splits into a ravine. The ground on the other side has been cleared, embers and smoke, blowing down away from the camp. The dragon must have built her nest on this side, and used the other for her hunting grounds.

“We’re going back,” Tinrel insists.

“No we’re not.”

“As First of the clan, I have decided.”

“We are on a hunt, Tinrel, and I am the hunter here,” she replies. “I have seniority. Go back if you must; I’m finding the others.”

“How?” he demands. “We can’t walk into a dragon’s nest!”

“Dirthara-ma,” she hisses at him. “Watch me.”

She moves, silently as she knows how, her ears pricked for even the faintest hint of wings on the air, or massive lungs snoring nearby. The nest is a series of shallow caves, lined with fresh bones. The carcass of a bear rots in the sun, most of the meat stripped from it. The dragonlings are young yet, but still fierce; they make sounds of interest as they smell her. But in the open sunlight, they are hesitant to venture forth.

She notches her bow and keeps her distance.

Dalish gear is littered among the bones outside of the nest.

Past the roar of horror in her own ears, she forces herself to count gauntlets.

When she returns to Tinrel, he is gripping his staff, ashen-faced.

“Did you find…” he begins, and then stares at her face.

He lowers his head.

“We can go now,” she tells him.

 

~

 

A clan without hunters will not last long. Autumn will fade to winter soon, and the nearest sister clan they have word of is months of travel away. The elders hotly debate their options. One hunter alone cannot provide enough for the whole clan; the stores they have been packing for winter are already being used up.

She does not hear much of the debates. Every morning she sets out, and does not return until she can bring something back. The Keeper frets for her, alone, but there is little to be done about it; those who are not trained to hunt cannot learn overnight, and their need is too great for her to spend time on teaching, or to risk losing kills to heavy footfalls or untrained hands.

There is no time to grieve. Every night, when she falls onto her mat, she is too exhausted to linger in the waking world. And as soon as she is up, she is off.

And then one morning, she spies an elk. Massive, beautiful. She stalks the beast, takes her shot; it’s a perfect kill, clean and near-instant, and she wants to brag. But there is no one to listen. And then she realizes, she is too far from camp; there is no way she can get an animal that large back on her own, and by the time she has gone to fetch others, the scavengers will no doubt have fallen upon it.

The absence of Melas, of the others, is suddenly so keen and impossible to ignore that it steals the breath from her. She feels like she too has been shot, much less cleanly than the elk.

When she can force herself to move again, she pulls the knife from her belt. As much meat as she can carry, she will take. She sets about her butchery with grim determination, wrapping up the best cuts until her pack is fit to bursting.

It is only when she is finished that she looks up, and sees the eyes watching her from the trees beyond.

The wolf is tall, and dark, and silent in the shadows. Thin enough to make her nervous over his potential desperation. She glances cautiously about, looking for the rest of the pack; but the animal appears to be as solitary as she.

“Andaran atish’an,” she murmurs at last, standing, and then gesturing towards the remnants of the elk. “You are welcome to the rest, friend. Eat in good health.”

She feels its eyes upon her long after she is gone.

 

~

 

There is a village to the south, surrounded by shemlen farms. The Keeper wants to trade with them. Some of the clan would prefer to simply take what they need.

“And how would you take it?” the Keeper asks them. “We have but few warriors and only one hunter left. Would you risk their loss to violence as well?”

That silences them. Their situation is so precarious, she has encountered an unprecedented level of anxiousness over her well-being. Whenever she draws close to camp, there is always someone rushing towards her, to help relieve her of her burdens. Tinrel has been leaving salves in her tent to soothe sore muscles, and though they must ration their food, she is always given a full share for her meals, without exception.

It doesn’t exactly go to her head, though. It’s necessity. If she injures herself, if she weakens herself, then their situation will truly become desperate.

The Keeper sends two of the warriors to talk with the shemlen visitors. It doesn’t go well, though at least it doesn’t end in bloodshed, either. But the shemlen are frightened, and the warriors are stiff and stilted and not gifted at speaking to outsiders.

After their second attempt fails, she sets out in the morning and heads south, down to the village herself. The shemlen regard her warily. They are round, she thinks. Even the thin ones among them are rounded in ways which elves are not. The softness is a deception; she remembers that from her childhood, dim and distant though it may be.

But people are people, and once upon a time, her parents only survived by accommodating them. She remembers some things. Curiosity, she knows, is universal.

“Hello,” she greets, eschewing elven words that would only make strangers uncomfortable. “I am a hunter, from Clan Lavellan to the north. I understand some of my kinsmen have visited you of late. I wonder, is there a somewhere I might trade the spoils of my hunt for food and a place to sit awhile?”

The villagers exchange glances, but they direct her to the trading post, and the tavern. She barters a set of antlers at a price that’s very likely lower than it should be, but that’s acceptable. The coins feel peculiar in her hands, familiar in a distant way, and yet strange, now.

She heads for the tavern, where they doubtless overcharge her again, and buys a bowl of soup and a drink.

It’s not long before the curious begin to venture forward.

“So. You’re one of them… Dalish?” a man asks her, wary.

“I am,” she confirms. “And you must be one of those humans I’ve heard so much about.”

He scoffs.

“Heard about?” he asks. “Ain’t you ever met one before?”

“Oh, we Dalish usually keep to ourselves,” she replies. “We wouldn’t bother you at all, but our winter stores are low, and so we’re hoping to trade for food.”

The man grunts.

“Heard something about that from them others,” he says.

“It’s quite a story, how we’ve gotten to this point,” she tells him. A few more interested ears have turned their way, she sees. “I’m surprised the warriors didn’t share it, though I suppose I shouldn’t be.  Those grim types aren’t much for talking.”

He snorts, but after a moment, pulls up the chair across from her.

“You can say that again.”

Soon enough she’s recounting the sad tale. It feels distant, flowing past her lips like this. She doesn’t use names, and her audience doesn’t seem to want her to, much. News of a dragon so close by is enough to make them nervous, but their fascination is stronger. By the end of it, she’s gotten a few tentative offers to do business. Her coin has run dry, but that’s alright; if it gets them through the winter, they can afford to suffer some losses on other goods. For now.

When she gets back to camp, she tells the Keeper.

The news earns her a startled blink.

“You spoke, and they listened, da’len?” the Keeper asks her.

She shrugs.

“They are wary, Keeper, but they are also curious. If someone wishes to win them over, they need only make sure the curiosity is stronger than the wariness.”

She heads out to check her snares, then, and leaves the speculative gleam in the older woman’s eyes behind.

 

~

 

Winter comes on swift wings, and her hunts turn long and arduous. Trade with the village, at least, seems to work out. With the prey spread thin, she sets aside some time to teach a few of the clan, but most of the time she finds herself trekking through the snow, following what tracks she can discover for days.

Snow drops like a blanket over the wilderness. Makes every snapping twig or rustling branch sound like a trespass over the stillness. The river freezes. Game grows more and more scarce, forcing her to go further and further on her hunts.

Three days into chasing down a small buck, she hears a wolf’s howl. It startles her quarry straight into her path, and she brings it down, swiftly.

The prize is small enough for her to carry most of it back.

After a moment’s consideration, she cleans it and guts it, and leaves what she can, red and bloody like a banner upon the snow.

She does not spot the wolf, this time, but it feels like she is being watched.

“My thanks, friend wolf,” she says to the wind.

 

~

 

When at last spring arrives, it is enough to inspire weeping. Two elders died with the winter. The melting snow brings floods that make passage difficult, but the clan opts to attempt it, at last abandoning their precarious perch between shemlen village and dragonling nest. They head for warmer lands, for the hunting grounds where other clans might be found.

They lose one of the aravels to mud on the trip, and Tinrel develops a terrible cough that rattles in his lungs, that has the foragers scrambling to find a certain kind of plant that the Keeper thinks might help.

She feels as though she has aged a hundred years in a few seasons. She feels… strange. Like she has become apart from the clan, always aware of what it needs and where it is, yet rarely _with_ it. She finds the plant the Keeper describes. She climbs out into the sinking aravel to help retrieve their supplies from it, before they can be ruined. When two of the halla run off in the chaos, she tracks them down and brings them back. And she hunts, as ever, and stays watchful, one eye on the roads the shemlen use whenever she crosses them.

The feeling does not abate when the summer comes, and at last they meet up with another clan, and share their woes. Clan Iverrin’s hunters clap her on the back at the news of her exploits, but she shrugs off their praise.

“It was do or die,” she says. They know it, too, and so it’s simple enough, really.  Two of Iverrin’s hunters offer to stay for the summer, to help them train more. One of them becomes smitten with their wood carver’s apprentice, and decides to make the stay permanent.

It gives her some space to breathe, but she still finds herself setting out alone, more often than not. She can’t quite say why, except that she feels _separate_ from the new hunters.

The Keeper doesn’t like it.

“When it was necessary, it was necessary,” she says. “But to hunt alone is dangerous, da’len.”

“It is,” she agrees. “But being together did not save the others.”

There is no refuting that, really.

The next winter is easier, and the clan’s following move passes with less hardship. They set up a few days away from a small mining town, in the mountains. Climb high enough, and she finds out it’s possible to see one of the big shemlen cities, planted like a stone amidst the grasslands.

She is surprised when the Keeper asks her to go to the town.

“See what news you can find,” she requests. “If you meet any trouble, return swiftly.”

An odd request, but one she can oblige. She heads in, bringing a few trinkets along for trade. The shemlen are easily coaxed into giving in to curiosity, again. They share news in exchange for stories and answered questions, offering up their own strange perspectives on the Dalish. Some, however, have a speculation in their eyes that she does not care for.

When she leaves, they think to follow her.

They are easy to evade, at least.

“Did you have any trouble?” the Keeper asks, when she returns.

She considers the question.

“I would not recommend sending anyone else there,” she decides. The Keeper accepts this with an inclination of her head, and an invitation to share what news she has learned.

 

~

 

So it goes; when the clan finds itself near enough to a shemlen settlement, as often as not, the Keeper sends her to find information; news on what the shemlen are doing, rumours of dangers, or problems with the area. When she is twenty-one a shemlen hunter follows her until she veers off the road; and when he attacks her, she puts an arrow through his eye.

It is her first time killing another person. With his questionable but undoubtedly malicious intentions towards her, she cannot say she regrets it much, but it isn’t like killing an animal. She sees the moment in her mind, over and over again, for weeks afterwards, until at last it seems to tuck itself away into some far corner of her dreams.

She wanders. It seems like she actually speaks to the members of her clan less and less. Always, she is treated with respect – deference, even – but there are none who sit with her readily when she takes meals around the fire. There is a space around her. She is not entirely sure if she put it there herself. The other hunters do not breach it. Even the Keeper doesn’t really try.

When she’s twenty-three they cross paths with Amari’s clan again.

There’s a certain shock in having arms flung around her, one that makes her realize just how long it’s been since she was _touched_. Amari’s stomach is round and her cheeks are flushed, her halla are fat and her husband is often indulging their eldest, a tiny girl who looks much like him.

“You look like a ghost, lethallan!” she exclaims. “Are you ill?”

“No,” she replies, and then finds herself stuck for words. This is no shemlen pub. It is no fireside tale. She has almost forgotten how to talk to people who expect her to be… present.

Amari does not let her escape, however. She drags her into her clan’s camp, and sits her daughter in her lap, and asks questions. The girl stares up at her face, intently, and then begins tracing her vallaslin with her fingertips.

It’s overwhelming.

“Where’s Melas?” Amari asks her.

“Gone,” she replies. Tiny fingers run across her face, and after a moment, she reaches out and gently grasps them, treating them to kisses instead. It earns her a smile.

“Oh, _lethallan._ I’m so sorry.”

“A dragon,” she explains. “We lost… most of the hunters.”

“Mythal preserve us. These beasts are growing more prolific by the year,” Amari laments.

The longer they speak, the more she feels something in her start to unknot, bit by bit. Or perhaps she is thawing, she thinks; thawing out of the ice of that winter that never really seemed to end, even when all the snow was long gone.

When the clans part, Amari asks her to stay, this time.

“Your clan looks at you strangely,” she says. “Stay with us.”

It’s tempting, as offers go. But Clan Lavellan still has too few hunters, when it comes to it, and none from Amari’s clan would want to take her place. They seem… strange, she realizes. Not only her, but the whole of them. They share news from shemlen cities and villages, and though the information is welcome, the fact that they even _have_ it seems to unnerve the other clan. And they are grim, by comparison; with few children or youths, with the evidence of recent hardships still etched into many faces.

She leaves with her clan.

 

~

 

She is twenty-five when she hears word of the conclave. Templars have become a sincere danger to the clans, hunting for Keepers and Firsts they deem ‘apostates’.

It’s the Keeper’s idea to send her to Ferelden.

“We must know what decisions are to be made. We must prepare, if these shemlen mage hunters will continue to threaten us. I do not ask this lightly, da’len. The journey will be difficult, and I do not think there is another soul among us who can manage it.”

It’s a daunting prospect; to cross the sea, to go so far south, so far away from her clan. Things have improved for them recently, but they are still recovering in many ways as well. To leave… to drift so far from where she is needed, feels wrong.

But what the clan needs is information, and if she is the only one who can retrieve it, then what else can be done?

It will be a long hunt, she thinks.

 

~

 

She falls through the Veil, from the wrong side, and wakes in a cell, only to find that the sky is torn asunder.

An elf she doesn’t know takes her hand and thrusts it at the rip in the Veil, and her arm shakes, green light spilling from whatever beast lives beneath her skin.

But it closes the rift.

The grip on her arrests her attention for a moment; the voice that speaks to her does the same. Solas. His name is Solas.

They ask for her help, and what can she do but give it to them? They must all live under the sky, after all.

She hunts for the Inquisition.

They call her ‘Herald of Andraste’, and she wonders what they would have called her if they were Dalish. Herald of Andruil, perhaps?

She skips through time with a mage from Tevinter, walks in a nightmare, walks back safe and sound and it’s hard to deny that _something_ must be safeguarding her, somehow.

They close the breach. Templars march on Haven, and she learns where the weak points in their armour are, stares down monsters as she lines up her shots or carves into them with gleaming knives and wonders how she has come to _this._

But it is a simple matter, when it becomes clear that someone is needed to lead Corypheus away so that the shemlen clan – the Inquisition – can escape. She’s done this before, led dangerous things away. This time she’ll probably die, though there’s no point in dwelling on it. If she doesn’t try, then she’ll _definitely_ die, and so will everyone else.

The would-be god likes to talk.

She falls, falls. Her arm _burns_. She learns to twist at the Veil, to banish what the rifts summon, before the demons can eat her alive. She walks through tunnels, and into snow.

The wind whips at her. A blizzard rages. She follows what signs of passage she can find, steps that become heavier with each one she takes.

It’s difficult to see. Soon the signs become scarce. No more fires burn. In front of her, all she can see is grey. To the sides, grey again. All that keeps her going in the same direction are the tracks behind her, and even those are swiftly covered by the racing wind.

One step. Then another. She must find the camp. She must find the clan.

She stumbles. A wolf howls, and it echoes, and seems to stretch to one side of her, as if the mountains open up that way. It’s a strange thing to think, but when she struggles to her feet again, she follows the sound.

The next time she stumbles, it seems that getting to her feet again would be an impossible task. The snow engulfs her. There is only grey, still, only grey, and perhaps she has gone the wrong way. Perhaps she is lost.

Something crunches ahead, a strange sound in the wind, and she looks up to see a pair of eyes, watching her.

“Friend wolf,” she murmurs.

But it isn’t. This wolf is no scraggly beast, though it is alone, so far as she can see. It is large and healthy, and she wonders if it’s come to find an opportunistic meal in a freezing traveller. It regards her with something she would almost describe as _surprise_. Only for a moment.

Then it turns, and begins to walk away.

Somehow, it seems, the wind doesn’t immediately swallow its tracks.

She rises to her feet, forces herself to follow. Perhaps to the wolf’s den. Perhaps to her death. But it’s the only path she can find, and at least there is some company on it.

At some point, a flickering light in the distance catches her eye. The wolf tracks are gone, as if they’d never been. But she hears another howl. She stumbles forward. Camp. Clan. She must live, they need her, there is something only she can do and if she is not alive to do it, they will all suffer and die.

Past the embers of an abandoned campsite, the last of her strength leaves her.

The sound of voices shouting fills her ears as she collapses.

 

~

 

Solas speaks of the orb Corypheus wields, and she feels something settle between them. Like a pact, she supposes. They are elven; this knowledge, that may be crucial to their success, must sit between them in silence. Waiting until the absolute last possible moment, if ever, to be revealed to anyone else. Even the most trustworthy among the others would not have the same stake in this that they do.

He directs her to Skyhold, and she directs the rest of the Inquisition, as if she’s doing anything more than relaying what Solas tells her. It’s a strange duplicity. She is once again apart from this group she belongs to, a member and yet a distant thing, orbiting around it, hunting on its behalf. But there is another with her, now, one step behind her, walking in her shadow. Easy counsel and easy silence in equal measure.

It seems to surprise him just as much as it surprises her, how neatly their footsteps fit beside one another.

They trek through the mountains.

She makes him wear boots.

“Feeling the earth through your feet is hard enough when it’s covered in rock and ice, and will be harder still if you lose toes,” she tells him.

“I am a mage. I need not feel the cold, if I do not wish it,” he replies.

“What a waste of concentration,” she tells him. “In my clan, hunters wear boots when it’s cold. Like sensible people who value their appendages.”

He looks down at his feet; mostly bare, not yet frostbitten, but somewhat scratched from the rocks.

“You… may have a point,” he concedes.

The look on his face when he slides the boots on is a sight to behold. Such abject disgust for something as simple as foot-coverings. He stumbles a bit when he starts to walk in them, and scowls, and looks as though he is already on the verge of taking them off again and declaring the attempt a wasted effort.

She takes his arm. He looks at her in surprise. It’s strange for her, too, to stand so close. But it makes it easy to steady him, to help him adjust to the difference in walking with boots on his feet.

After a few moments, he seems to have it, and smoothly reclaims his arm from her. He clears his throat.

“Thank you,” he says.

She inclines her head, and they don’t speak of it again; but her mind lingers on the warmth of his arm through fabric, the smell of him, the unexpected comfort of touch.

And here she’d thought she’d managed to admirably survive her teenage years without embarrassing infatuations ambushing her left and right. Apparently, she’d been biding her time without even knowing it.

She has a sudden urge to go bang her head against a tree.

But it’s not long after that that they find it. Skyhold. Stones upon stones. Old and weathered, but still sturdy and strong. Something… feels right about the place. Almost like walking into an old campsite, with the statues waiting, except, somehow _stronger._ A cheer goes up at the sight of the place. But when they first cross the bridge, she can’t help but linger. Staring. Wondering.

Where has Solas brought them?

“This place is amazing,” she tells him, as he pauses beside her. It’s a pattern for them now; she will go ahead, and then stop, and soon enough he will be at her shoulder.

“I am glad you approve,” he replies, leaning against his staff. It was a long way up.

“You found it in the Fade?”

“The knowledge of it is there,” he says. “Whispers of past battles and ruins. I would need to rest here to actually _visit_ it in the Fade, however.”

“Well, you’ll get your chance soon,” she muses. “I expect everyone could use a rest.”

“So it would seem,” he agrees.

 

~

 

The ‘Inquisitor’, she finds, is a hunter, but also a Keeper.

That persistent space between her and everyone else remains. It even, perhaps, grows larger. _Inquisitor Lavellan,_ they murmur with bowed heads. _Your worship,_ they say. It occurs to her that she cannot recall the last time someone actually used her name.

“It feels so long since someone addressed me without being formal,” she admits to Solas, as they examine one of the towers within the keep.

“The Inquisition is fond of titles,” he muses.

“Even before this,” she admits. “I honestly can’t remember when someone just called me by name.” It might have been Amari. But perhaps even she only used ‘lethallan’.

Solas stills, a moment, and when he glances at her, there is something she can’t quite place in his expression. Almost… commiseration, though everyone here calls him by name, so it would be strange for him to commiserate on this. Unless, perhaps, he is thinking of times in his past; long wanderings when he did not speak to a soul.

“You have become a symbol,” he reminds her. “Perhaps it is for the best, that they do not use your name. It is something personal of yours to hold onto.”

“That’s probably a good way to think of it,” she decides. Then she hesitates, for a moment, glancing towards him. “But if you wish, you may use it whenever you like,” she offers.

He glances at her again, that strange look in his eye, and after a moment, inclines his head in acknowledgement of her offer.

And request, perhaps.

 

~

 

In the clan, the best way to find out what people needed was to ask the Keeper. She collected knowledge and dispensed it as required, offering counsel when necessary, arranging for resources to be acquired where needed. The clan’s heart.

In the Inquisition, she is part Keeper, now, too. So she must collect this knowledge herself, she realizes, seeking out her people and inquiring after their needs. At first, it does nothing to eat away at the distance between them. But… gradually, she finds that some of them begin to close that gap. Chip away at it. It’s different from one to the next. Leliana, Vivienne, Iron Bull, and Dorian seem to acknowledge the barrier without saying a word about it, yet somehow diminish its impact simply by understanding its existence.

Josephine neatly sidesteps it whenever she wishes, as if it is less a barrier than a door which may be opened or closed at her leisure; she brushes past with smiles and jokes and compliments, before neatly stepping back around.

Cullen and Cassandra do not seem the least bit aware of it, sitting comfortably on the other side at one moment, and then bludgeoning straight through the next.

Blackwall puts her on a pedestal, almost decorating the distance, laying invisible flowers around it. Cole only seems to perceive the cacophony of the anchor inside of her, like a storm he has to listen over. Sera is wary of the barrier, and of her, as if she might turn around and become too haughty and ‘elfy’ on her at any moment.

Varric knocks at it, as if searching for weak points in the wall, trying to figure out where to put a hammer to bring some of it down.

And Solas, somehow, weaves his way into it, neither breaching it nor remaining safely on the other side.

Until the dream.

She has never kissed anyone before. She decides not to mention that. He seems alarmed enough as it is, and her heart races, and then clenches in fear because he is so _hesitant_.

She stares at the mark on her hand. Wonders if this is truly all she is meant to be to others. The hunter. The one who does what must be done, roaming at a distance.

 

~

 

Solas paints beautifully, as if he has spent his life training to be an artist rather than wandering the Fade.

“They are not uncomplimentary interests,” he tells her, as he sits atop his scaffolding, carefully tracing new forms with his brush. “The Fade is shaped by perception. So is artwork. In many ways, attempting to manipulate either paint or magic requires the same mentality.”

She walks over to the nearest wall, traces her fingers over the dried outline of a wolf.

“Wolves?” she asks.

He shrugs.

“There seem to be a few packs roaming these mountains,” he replies, a touch defensively.

“I’m not criticizing,” she assures him. “I like wolves.”

“I did not think the Dalish were fond of them, in general,” he notes, his hand pausing, only briefly, before continuing with his brushstrokes.

“Why not?” she wonders. But then it occurs to her. “Oh! Because of Fen’Harel?”

The brush pauses again.

“…Indeed,” Solas confirms.

She shrugs.

“Folk tales,” she says. “Most of them are less ‘ancient history’ or even ‘religion’ than they are ‘hahren is bored and wants to make up cautionary stories for the young ones’. I mean, some take them very seriously, but wolves aren’t a problem for the Dalish. Unless they’re possessed by demons, or desperate enough to go after the halla.”

“I see. So it would not do to paint wild animals with the same brush as reviled gods?” Solas guesses, a sour note in his tone. She’s not sure what put it there, but it often turns up when they discuss the Dalish.

“When your history is pieced together from rumours, speculation, and wild guess work, it doesn’t do to stand too firmly on it,” she clarifies. “Or at least, I don’t think so. I mean, look at what everyone around us is doing. People assume I’m the ‘Herald of Andraste’ because a vision of a woman appeared behind me in the Fade. If the woman is Andraste, that fits with the stories they know. But really, in the Fade, it could have been anything. A spirit. A reflection. A shadow. There’s no reason at all to think it was Andraste, except that they want to.”

Solas stops painting. He swings himself around, legs dangling over the edge of the scaffolding, and looks down at her.

“So you do not believe?” he wonders.

“In _Andraste?”_ she asks.

“Or any other deity, I suppose.”

“Oh. Well. I don’t disbelieve, necessarily. I suppose it’s fine to work with a theory. It’s just no good when you cling to it past the point of reason. I mean, take the wolves,” she suggests, putting a hand to the mural again. “I’ve never met Fen’Harel, so I can’t exactly provide a character reference for him. But I’ve met wolves. What should I base my opinion of them on, then? A god I don’t know, who supposedly looks like them sometimes, or the animals I’ve actually encountered?”

When she glances back to him, Solas is _grinning._ It takes her aback for a moment.

“What?” she wonders.

“I like your perspective,” he declares.

She raises an eyebrow, and wonders why she feels like he’s laughing at her. His grin shifts into a genuine smile, however, and any hint of mockery evaporates as if it never was.

“Truly,” he assures her. “You surprise me at every turn.”

Something in her stomach does a little flip.

“It’s not _that_ uncommon, as perspectives go,” she insists, and hopes she isn’t blushing now.

This elf will be the death of her.

 

~

 

She finds him drinking tea, and grimacing with every sip, as if it is absolutely revolting. It’s amusing, until he mentions his friend.

He describes the spirit of wisdom, and she cannot help but think of Amari, who fit so perfectly into their world; who could be so easily swept away from it by careless shemlen who think _nothing_ of abusing the power they have.

When the spirit dies, she sees Solas’ rage, and cannot quell it. Cannot begin to try. If these people had taken Amari, or Cole, or anyone on a surprisingly long list of individuals, and tortured them, destroyed who they were like that…

She lets Solas do as he will.

But then he leaves. Days go by, and she begins to worry that he will not come back. Skyhold is emptier without him. There is no voice in the tower library, chatting about the Fade, or magic, or ancient ruins as the paint brush scrapes across the walls, or the pages of some tome turn over in his hands.

“I could send some agents after him,” Leliana offers.

“He’s not our prisoner,” she insists. “He’s free to come and go, like any ally.”

The spymaster accepts this, but it would be a lie if she said she wasn’t a little tempted.

“Cheer up,” Varric encourages her. “I’m sure Chuckles just needs a little space. He’ll wander on back when the time’s right.”

“Am I that obvious?” she wonders.

He shrugs.

“Let’s just say I’ve got some experience with watching friends… _inelegantly_ stumble their way through a courtship or two,” he explains. “I’m sure there are some people in the hold who haven’t picked up on it. People who don’t have to witness your sad face every time you check the tower to see if he’s magically teleported himself back into it overnight, for example.”

“So no one in the main hall, then,” she muses.

“What, the stuffed shirts? Oh, they haven’t figured it out,” he assures her. “They’re all convinced it’s you and Dorian. The Tevinter Mage and the Dalish Herald. Easy drama, so long as you don’t actually pay attention to anyone involved. Mother Giselle is worried that he’s a threat to your virtue.”

She takes a moment to process that.

_“Dorian?”_ she repeats. “Dorian Pavus?”

“Hey, I’m not sure how they managed to miss the obvious, either,” Varric replies, raising a hand. “I guess they just can’t resist the set-up.”

The absurdity of it actually chases the concern from her mind for several hours.

When the look-outs send a runner to tell them that they’ve spotted Solas approaching, she barely stops herself from barrelling out of the War Room to meet him. She makes herself stay and wrap up matters with Cullen before she leaves, instead, finishing the conversation about troop movements and then jogging through the main hall.

She gets out into the courtyard just in time to see Solas return – melancholy, but whole.

 

 

~

 

At Adamant Fortress, they fall into the Fade.

A demon preys upon them as a dead woman attempts to guide their path.

And it _is_ a remarkable experience, but coming as it does on the heels of so many other remarkable experiences, it’s difficult to muster up a sense of wonder. Though, the Fear demon may be a large contributing factor as well.

She sends Hawke to certain death.

Her mind loops the moment of truth, over and over again, looking for some way she could have changed it, could have made the situation work so that no one was lost. If they had been faster fighting that aspect of the demon. If she could have figured out a way to get past the bulk of it. If she could have _opened_ another rift for them herself.

Her incompetence cost them Hawke.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

She turns from the arrows she had been fletching, and there is Cole.

“It must be bothering me a lot if you could hear it past the anchor,” she decides.

“Yes,” he agrees. “I could take it away.”

“No, thank you,” she tells him. “I owe it to Hawke to remember. I have to learn from my mistakes, so I don’t make them again.”

“You didn’t make a mistake. You made a decision. So did Hawke,” Cole tells her. “There was no time to do anything else.”

“I know. But maybe next time, there will be.”

She turns away from him. After a moment she hears a shuffle, and then he slips into the seat beside her, and leans over, and presses his shoulder against hers. Warm. Strong. Sure.

She closes her eyes, and lets out a breath.

“Am I interrupting something?” Solas asks, and she looks up to see him standing in the doorway, obviously curious over their sudden closeness. Their resident spirit isn’t usually big on physical contact, after all.

“I’m helping,” Cole announces.

Curiosity gives way to concern.

“I see,” Solas replies.

“I’m much better now,” she assures them both, nudging Cole a little, and offering him a pat on the shoulder. “Thank you, Cole. That worked very well.”

“I didn’t fix it right.”

“But you did help,” she promises him, and does her best to reign in her self-recriminations, in the hopes that, at the very least, they’ll fade behind the general background noise that apparently surrounds her. After a few minutes, Cole gets up and leaves.

Solas lingers.

“You must be affected indeed, to have drawn Cole to you,” he notes, just as she had. But when she glances at him, there’s no pity in his expression. Only a slight furrowing to his brows.

“It’s not that bad,” she assures him.

He claims Cole’s vacated seat, and after a moment, his hand reaches over and closes gently over one of hers. His fingers are long and warm and a little rough, marred with tiny scars and here and there, the spoils of a life lived in exploration.

“It seems I must repeat your own sentiments back to you, vhenan – you need not grieve alone,” he tells her. The endearment sounds so fresh, still, falling from his lips. But even the fledgling thing between them isn’t enough to distract her at the moment.

“I barely knew Hawke,” she protests.

“Should that matter?” he wonders. “You feel grief; is that not enough?”

She swallows, and after only a second of hesitation, threads her fingers through his.

“Ma serannas,” she whispers. “When I was barely grown, all of the clan’s hunters died, except for me. I was injured, and wasn’t with them when they happened upon a dragon’s nest. Pure misfortune. If I’d been there, I probably would have been just another meal. But by chance I lived. And I was exactly what my clan needed, right when I was needed most. I was the one who hunted for us. I was the one who figured out how to approach the shemlen villagers for trade.” She glances at him. “I thought of that, when I sent Hawke to die. I am needed. I could have sacrificed myself, if it came to it, and bought the others time to escape, but I’m the one who can close the rifts. So I let another die in my place.”

Solas listens. There is no condemnation in his gaze, no rebuke.

“The Divine died on my behalf as well. She wouldn’t leave without me, she thought I was worth risking herself for. But maybe I just have to believe I’m needed in order to justify the fact that I keep on surviving.”

The grip on her hand tightens.

“No,” he tells her. “You are needed; that is a simple fact that only a fool could overlook. Do not let self-recrimination blind you to the truth.”

“Self-recrimination and humility can make a person undervalue themselves,” she muses. “But conceit and self-importance can drive people to terrible lengths. Just look at the wardens. They killed their own, Solas. They put knives to the throats of their friends because they believed the sacrifice worthwhile-”

“And their fellows lined up to let them,” Solas replies, sharply. “Do not overlook that foolishness. If it came to it, I would rather see you wield the knife than throw yourself onto the altar. But I doubt it would come to it. Where others have tried to raise you up onto the shoulders of their gods, you have remained firmly on the ground. Whatever they believe.”

“And that’s where I’d like to stay,” she admits. “Perching on a god’s shoulders sounds… precarious. It’d be a long way to fall if I slipped.”

They are silent, for a time. When she looks at him again, Solas is staring intently at their joined hands.

“Abelas,” he says, softly.

“What are you apologizing for?” she wonders.

He carefully retracts his grip.

“Nothing. A stray thought. You have conducted yourself admirably so far,” he insists. “Of course, you are right to reflect on your actions, and question your own motivations. But do not allow regret to drive you to extremes of self-flagellation or guilt. That way lies its own kind of madness.”

She lets out a breath.

“I think you’re right,” she agrees, and one corner of her mouth curls upwards at him. “You usually are.”

He inclines his head.

“I have been known to make mistakes,” he assures her.

“I won’t tell anyone.”

He laughs, as if she’s surprised it out of him.

“Of course. We wouldn’t want it to get around,” he says, and then he chuckles, though it seems a little mirthless that time.

She can’t help but wonder why.

 

~

 

“There’s… dancing?” she asks, in the middle of the War Room, after an off-handed comment from Jospehine.

“Of course there will be dancing,” Leliana replies. “It is a party, is it not?”

“And I will be expected to dance?” she confirms, unease growing in the pit of her stomach.

She sees the moment comprehension dawns on her advisors. The Dalish dance, certainly, but not like nobility does; there are no ballrooms or orchestras out in the wilderness. Music comes from one or two instruments, at best, and some singing, and dances are not often coordinated affairs. Even so far as that is concerned, she had never indulged in the pastime very much.

“We will hire you an instructor,” Josephine immediately decides.

“By the time anyone qualified reached Skyhold, we would have to set out for Orlais ourselves,” Leliana points out. “We shall have to find someone here.”

“I would offer, but the delegation from the merchants’ guild is arriving tonight, and I will have my hands full seeing to them,” Josephine says.

“Don’t look at me!” Cullen immediately blurts, backing away from the table as if he expects them all to jump on him, even though no one was actually looking at him yet. “I’m a terrible dancer, and I suspect I’d be even worse at teaching it.”

Leliana rolls her eyes at them.

“I will take care of it,” she decides. “Meet me in the courtyard this evening, if you would, Inquisitor.”

There isn’t much she can do but agree.

By the time she gets there, however, she finds that something of a crowd has gathered. Iron Bull and the Chargers have perched themselves over by the practice dummies, tankards from the tavern clutched in their hands. Sera’s not far off, sitting on a barrel, similarly equipped. There seem to be an inordinate number of people just loitering around outside; Varric, Dorian, and even Vivienne among them.

“It seems we have drawn an audience,” Leliana notes.

“We could go to my chambers instead,” she suggests. The lavish room ostensibly belonging to her in the hold feels absolutely cavernous most days.

“There will be eyes on you at the Winter Palace,” the spymaster points out. “Perhaps it is best you grow accustomed to it now.”

She narrows her gaze at Leliana.

“And I wonder how everyone found out about this?”

Leliana returns her glare with a look of perfect innocence.

_Too_ perfect.

“I’ll have to look into it later. We might have a leak. Now, we’ll start with something simple…”

Orlesian dances are strange, but to the disappointment of most everyone assembled, she picks up the steps quickly enough. Once it’s clear she’s getting the hang of it, it dissolves into a free-for-all, however, starting when Dorian suddenly wonders if they might not have a few Tevine dances (as they are quite superior, really, much more complex) and cuts in.

Partway through the second dance he tries to teach her, Vivienne intercedes.

“Darling, your butchery of movement is _painful_ to witness,” she declares, which is a bit hurtful, actually, until it becomes clear that she’s addressing Dorian. “It’s so stiff!”

“It’s supposed to be stiff!” Dorian insists.

Iron Bull whistles.

“No, no, no, no. Every dance requires _grace_. You should be like water, my dear, not a plank of wood. Let me show you how it’s done,” she commands, and shoos Dorian away, taking over in a demonstration that is, admittedly, much more fluid.

“None of this is _dancing_ ,” Sera complains. “Quit bobbing around like puppets on strings and move your arses like you mean it!”

Her commentary earns several cheers of agreement among the Chargers.

“I’ve got it!” Krem declares, pushing through, and taking her by the hands. “Inquisitor,” he greets, with just a hint of nerves emerging, and then starts leading her through the steps of what seems to be some kind of lively Fereldan jig. She highly doubts anything like it will feature at the Winter Palace, but everyone is laughing and cheering and shouting encouragements, and so she lets her feet move with it.

By the time they’re finished she’s out of breath, and almost entirely certain she’s going to remember all the wrong dance steps, if she remembers any at all. But she feels… lighter, strangely at ease, and everyone around seems cheered by their antics.

When she looks at the spymaster, Leliana nods in approval, as if the lesson has somehow gone perfectly well.

 

~

 

The Winter Palace is a strange trial.

She is daunted by the very prospect of it all. Her formal uniform feels strange on her, though there is a surprising amount of comfort in having the rest of the Inquisition similarly dressed. It makes them easy to pick out of the crowd, at least, and when her nerves get the best of her she finds herself drifting towards the nearest flash of red her eyes can pick out of the crowd, if only for a few moments of solidarity.

Orlesian nobles are like birds, she decides. They adorn themselves and flutter about, chirping and shrieking, trying to make themselves look bigger and fancier and in possession of the most shiny, pretty things. But it would be folly to mistake that ridiculousness for a lack of danger. Sharp beaks and talons are hidden underneath all of that frippery.

Still, she feels very out-of-place. A completely different sort of animal, in this flock of birds.

She is surprised when she spots a uniform and following it brings her to Solas, and she finds him smiling. It’s not his usual smile, by any means. He leans in a shadowed corner, dressed in his modified clothing – who insisted upon that hat, she’s not sure – and smiling a sharp, almost _feral_ little grin. For a moment she can think of nothing so much as a predator surrounded by a flock of easy prey, so numerous and inept that he can’t even decide where to start rending and tearing.

She marvels at him as they chat. When he looks at her, there’s a gleam in his eyes. Something… pressing just at the edges of him. It makes her pulse jump, and not with alarm.

“Good hunting,” he bids her, when she remembers that she can’t spend all night trying to solve _this_ mystery.

The words click something back into place for her. As if he’d handed her a piece of herself that she’d accidentally dropped somewhere. Hunt. Yes, she knows how to hunt. And if Solas can stand there in the shadows, gleeful as the wrong kind of animal in amidst all these dangerous feathered things, then so can she. It’s a strange hunt, but hunts often go strange.

_They are wary and they are curious,_ she reminds herself. _Make sure their curiosity is stronger._

It’s almost easy, after that. She listens to whispers and answers questions with questions, channelling a Keeper’s knack for evasiveness and vague non-answers with the practice of having grown up around it. They know she’s Dalish. They expect her to be exotic and savage and a little sharp around the edges. Not _too_ sharp. Not enough to really make them think she’s dangerous. But enough to give them a tiny little thrill, every time one of them speaks to her; like ravens darting forward to pull on a wolf’s tail.

Except there is only one true blackbird in the flock, and she descends without the slightest hint of fear.

The hunt goes well. And when it’s done, she retreats, as is her custom.

Solas dances with her on the balcony.

Dancing with Florianne had been like trying to navigate a field full of bear traps with an armload of weighted pincushions. She had, indeed, forgotten most of the formal steps she’d been taught, but in the end her improvisations had been what had won them the dance floor, and kept the Grand Duchess struggling to match pace with her, rather than the other way around.

Solas has no such difficulty. Dancing with him is heady, as they follow the music, weaving their way around the balcony and chasing one another’s steps. His hands are warm and his face is close, and when the music stops, she abandons all pretense and kisses him.

He takes a moment to react. He often does, as if he never really expects to be kissed, and it makes her want to keep on ambushing him with kisses, until he loses that soft edge of surprise. Tonight he is swift, though, and when she moves he meets her, and draws her close.

When he finally pulls back, there is something painfully _hungry_ in his eyes.

He smiles.

“You have won a victory from the court,” he says. “But I do not think we should give them too much ammunition in return, tonight.”

She sighs, and lets herself rest her head against him. For all his words, he doesn’t seem too eager to let her go.

“Believe me, Solas, one elf kissing another on a balcony _pales_ in comparison to pretty much all of the gossip I’ve heard tonight,” she tells him.

“Even when said elf is the famed leader of the Inquisition, and the other is a disreputable apostate?” he wonders.

She snorts.

“As far as apostate reputations go, yours is sterling,” she assures him, and then tilts her chin a little, meeting his gaze. “Officially, you are a mage ally of the Inquisition, a lauded expert in your field of study, and an invaluable advisor. That’s got to be at _least_ as respectable as ‘court mystic’.”

“Are you trying to flatter me, vhenan?” he wonders. The gleam’s still in his eyes, and that strange, wicked little smile twists his lips again.

The temptation to kiss it off of him is _far_ too great to resist.

They only part again at the sound of a throat clearing by the doors. Cassandra raises an eyebrow at them.

“If you’re both quite finished, I believe it is time we retired to the guest quarters, and reviewed the night’s events,” she informs them, clearly past eager to be away from the proceedings.

“Duty calls,” she laments.

“As ever,” Solas agrees, and takes a swift step back.

 

~

 

‘It will never happen again’, he tells her, in Crestwood, when she is more expecting a declaration of love than a withdrawal of all affections.

When at last she returns to Skyhold, she doesn’t think he could have found a more effective way of distracting her from the upcoming battle if he’d tried. But she does, indeed, take her pain and sharpen it to an edge; she throws it at Corypheus, wrenches the orb from him as if it _belongs_ above the anchor in her palm.

She feels like a tool. A weapon. A pawn, fulfilling its task, sweeping into checkmate at the behest of some unseen hand. The orb glows and sings and her arm burns as she seals the wound in her sky, and then it falls, spent, and it feels as if the rift is _inside_ of her instead; as if she has swallowed it.

She rends Corypheus from the world.

It’s strange. There is no great rush of triumph. There is barely the satisfaction of a job well done.

Her steps only falter when she sees Solas, crouched by the orb, holding the lifeless pieces in his hands. And so she finds herself offering apologies, wondering if there might not be some solution, hiding somewhere. Some sawblade which might cut these chains around them.

He looks just as she feels. Spent. Resigned. Drawn in by the same inevitable path of fate.

She wishes she knew what his burden was.

Or what hers will be now, for that matter.

He swears that what they have is real, and she knows it. Even if he’d never said a word, she’d have known it. She can _feel_ it. She’s no mage and he’s no Dalish, but they are just alike, all the same, and they have only bound themselves closer to one another, no matter how he turns his back to her now.

She isn’t surprised, when she turns to find him gone.

Hurt. But not surprised.

 

~

 

Leliana’s agents have better things to do than embark upon a fruitless search, she decides.

And is she not a hunter?

He promised her answers after Corypheus was dead, and she killed the darkspawn magister with her own hands. Literally. If nothing else, Solas owes her that due.

The strange rift inside of her pulses and thrums as she fills up a pack, takes what little gear she needs, and pens a few quick letters to her advisors.

When she turns to the door, she is surprised to see someone leaning in it.

Morrigan’s golden eyes are sharp in the darkness.

“You are… leaving?” she observes. “I confess, I did not expect that.”

“The breach is sealed. Corypheus is dead. I’m no longer necessary,” she replies.

“I believe a great many people would disagree with that assessment,” Morrigan says. “The nobility are already clamouring for the chance to meet you. You are the symbol of this organization, it’s uniting force. And…” the witch tilts her head, narrows her gaze. “Something has changed about you, has it not?”

“What does the Well tell you?” she wonders.

“…That sorrow must come,” Morrigan replies.

She considers this, and then nods, as if it is perfectly reasonable. And, in a way, it is.

“Whatever is coming, I’m not waiting for it this time,” she declares. “I have done my duty. I have fulfilled my obligations. There is _nothing_ the Dalish value more than freedom, but we aren’t free, are we? We divert fate only to meet it in another place. You rebel against your mother, only to unwittingly pledge yourself to her service. I destroy Corypheus’ plans, and yet I feel as if I’m playing right into someone else’s.”

“Who’s?” Morrigan asks, shrewdly.

“The Creators’. Andraste’s. The Maker’s. Your mother’s. Maybe the Avvar sky goddess’s!” she snaps, slinging her pack across her shoulders with just a hair too much aggression. “At this point, I’m past caring. The only way I’m free is if I do what I _truly_ wish to. What my heart, and not my sense of duty, demands of me.”

The witch contemplates her words. She stays in the doorway – not quite blocking it, but not quite moving aside, either.

“Love of any kind can be most terrifying,” Morrigan says, in that soft, slow way of hers. “I fled from it, once, and was pursued against my fervent wishes. I doubt _he_ would want you to do this. Most likely, he would be best pleased if you stayed here, safe among Skyhold’s magical protections, with soldiers to defend you and loyal companions to offer you comfort in his absence.”

She waits, almost trembling with her need to move, to be gone, though the hold around her still feels like welcome and safety.

Morrigan steps aside, and gestures outwards.

“I wish you luck,” she declares.

In the night beyond the hold, in the mountains, a wolf howls.

It will be a long hunt, she thinks.

 

~


End file.
